I Remember
by neverendingdrumming
Summary: Arya dreams of dire wolves, Sansa of revenge, Cersei of wildfire and Tyrion of dragons. Long buried memories rise to the surface to have consequences for all. Sansa, Reek, Cersei, Jon, Tyrion, Dany and more. Starting and diverging from Season 5, Episode 6 'Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken'. Some mixed book and TV events.
1. Chapter 1

I Remember

Probably one shot.

* * *

Reek raised a shaking hand to lift the latch and crept through the iron door. The cold breakfast tray wobbled on his missing fingers as he laid it on the ground. He didn't dare to look at her stifling her sobs as she lay on the furs, ugly purple bruises blossomed across her pale skin.

But Sansa Stark looked at him. Her back stiffened and her sobs stopped. Slowly, she turned her head, but Reek didn't see. His watery blue eyes darted wildly around the bleak room to avoid her steely gaze. The Stark gaze that Eddard Stark had turned on him so often as a boy-

 _Reek, reek, it rhymes with weak._

A different boy. Reek never knew him. He had always been Reek.

He trembled.

Sansa had now left the bed and was walking toward him, her pale dress trailing in the dusts of snow that had floated through the open window.

Reek cowered, and began shuffling rapidly toward the welcoming door.

'Theon, wait.'

Reek's back hunched involuntarily and his inside churned, threatening vomit.

'Not Theon, my lady. Reek.'

 _It rhymes with meek._

'Help me.'

Slowly, Reek turned. Lady Bolton's feet were white, with a little freckle on her smallest toe. Ten.

'You're his wife now,' he muttered.

'Theon,' she repeated more urgently.

His shoulders shook and Reek tried to rip apart the visions of the snowy fabric tearing down her back and her whimpers, spliced with memories of long ago, when she was just a girl and he only a boy.

 _Now watch her become a woman._

'Do what he says or he'll hurt you.'

'He already hurts me every night. All day I'm locked in this room and every night he comes. It can't be worse,' Sansa said desperately.

Sansa was tied to a crimson wooden frame, naked, as Ramsay, smiling, ran his knife in a fluid silvery motion from her navel straight down. Her screams were muffled by the thickly falling snow. The trees in the Godswood mirrored her bloody tears.

Reek cringed.

'It can. It can always be worse.'

Sansa took one step closer. The words pierced Reek like his master's knife.

'What did he do to you?'

'Please…'

Reek needed to flee from those Stark eyes, to retreat back to the dirty stables and warm scratchy hay, where no one could find him, to where he belonged.

'You betrayed my family!'

 _No, he didn't._ That was Theon Greyjoy, her father's ward. _I am Reek._

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry!'

Sansa did not hear.

'You have to help me.'

Reek quivered as Ramsay's lips stretched across his teeth. _Hold out your hand, Reek._

'He'll see us. You don't know him.'

'My family still has friends in the North. All I have to do is give a signal and they'll rescue me. Climb to the top of the Broken Tower, light this candle, and put it in the window. Promise me, Theon,' she begged.

Reek vomited the words as they spilled from his cracked lips.

'Reek, my lady, Reek!'

'No,' Sansa said.

'Look at me.'

Lady Bolton didn't want to ask twice.

 _Don't let her ask twice._

Quivering, Reek lifted his watering eyes, face twitching, dreading hers. It was worse than he imagined.

Sansa Stark's eyes, steely grey in her cracked porcelain face, bore into his. He recoiled but was trapped by her gaze, transfixed as though by a Dornish viper. He saw the same cringing fear and horror that lay within his own eyes, but in their cold depths was determination and hope.

'Your name is Theon Greyjoy. Last surviving son of Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands, do you hear me? Theon. Promise me.'

Tears welled in Reek's eyes and he shook his head to shake off the flurry of memories. No, no, Reek mustn't… he was drowning in his head.

He met her penetrating gaze again for the shortest moment and flinched. Reek wrenched the candle from her hands and stumbled out the door.

Reek forced himself through the draughty corridor into the snowstorm outside, his three left fingers wrapped around the brittle tallow.

The staircase of the broken tower wound around and around as Reek's shuffling footsteops echoes in the black stone. His lungs seemed to shrink and he wheezed, coughing as he ran.

 _Reek, reek, it rhymes with seek._

Reek reached the oaken door and pushed it open to see his master's icy eyes fixed unblinkingly upon his own. He met the stare of the filthy grey stones that lay at his mutilated feet.

'Reek,' Ramsay enunciated slowly, relishing the sharp sound. His lips spread in a wide smile while his ice-blue eyes flayed him alive.

'Have you got something to tell me?'

* * *

As Reek scurried from the room, Sansa was free to let her disgust surface. She wasn't sure how she felt about Theon. She couldn't deny her disgust at the cringing, filthy rat, Reek, that the lazily arrogant, confident boy Theon had shrunken into. But every time she came close to feeling something like pity, Bran and Rickon's faces surfaced and she felt a fresh surge of repulsion.

But nothing she felt for Theon came close to the hatred she bore for Ramsay Snow.

In a sick way she almost enjoyed it. Cry, sob, weep, you wounded little bird, sing out just how stupid you are. Fill your eyes with tears so they won't see what is burning behind them.

She was glad that her husband took her from behind each night, so he didn't look upon her face. She smiled even through every cry, her lips drawn back from her teeth. She would wait.

Sansa had spent three years in King's Landing with a sadistic brat, his bitch mother and a 'Lord Protector' as predictable as he was ambitious. She knew brains, cunning and brutality and knew she was facing it again in Ramsay Snow.

But this time she had donned her armour from the beginning. It was stronger than ever.

The first layer was the courtesy that Septa Mordane and Cersei had taught her. Underneath was her true self, the fragile bird with a broken wing. They all hid the direwolf, gaunt yet savage, ready to rip apart the monsters and pretenders.

The North remembers, thought Sansa Stark.

 _I remember._


	2. Cersei

The dim light blinded Cersei as the door opened once again, revealing the silhouette of a hated septa.

'Confess,' the figure intoned.

Cersei licked her cracked lips. She had spat at, tried to bribe, threatened and cried at the bitch in robes, used every weapon in her arsenal, but to no avail. Every day, the indomitable figure returned, and every day, she refused to confess.

She felt little more than an animal, lying here in her own shit, pressing her face into the filth to get every last drop of water that the septa poured onto the stones. A blinding hatred filled her, once again, for the filthy, treasonous High Sparrow and his fanatical followers; for fucking Lancel with his branded forehead; the bitch who poured her water before her eyes. Their smiling faces danced out of reach in her memories. They would all burn.

Cersei began to laugh, a horrible constricted sound that turned to a wet cough. She had come full circle, back to Mad King Aerys. She imagined the High Sparrow shrieking in agony as the flickering green of wildfire was reflected in his small, wrinkled eyes. But the best part was the fear, as he stared, wide eyed, into her merciless green eyes. The delicious smell of his burning, shrivelled flesh filled the air and she danced, laughing, around the fire, strewn with the wreckage of the High Sparrow's monastery and the bodies of Robert, Margery Tyrell, Tyrion, Joffrey…

Cersei hunched forward and vomited in the dark. She vaguely noticed the smell, but it did nothing to silence the hunger or her sickness for the thought of her boy in the flames.

Her eyes smarted; she had no water for tears, but the reflex was there.

The Queen lay her head in the sludge of her cell and her eyelids scraped shut.


	3. Daenerys

The sun beat down, redder and hotter than ever, as Daenerys Targaryen sat in a wooden chair next to her future husband, watching 'free' men slaughter each other in the sand below. Dark red liquid splashed onto the gritty sand as they grunted, and one lost his head, sliding off his shoulders and rolling across the ground until it stopped, the vacant eyes staring hopefully up at the pale blue sky.

Dany watched every man, sickened but determined. If she, the Mother of Dragons, has recommissioned the fighting pits of Mereen, then she was going to watch every man die. She was not a helpless girl, or a naïve princess, or a Westerosi whore but a Queen, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons and if her people were to die slaughtering each other in the _freedom_ and _tradition_ of the fighting pits, she would not sit back, passive, while the Golden Harpy mocked her with cruel wings- she would watch their final moments with respect. She would compensate their families- had they any- with dignity and empathy. And she would carry the horror and injustice of their murders- for that was what they were- with her in her heart.

Murder. Her blood boiled as she saw a brothel stained red with a eunuch's blood, bodies slumped in sunny alleyways, surrounded by buzzing flies and a pair of dark, shadowy eyes behind a golden mask of the harpy, glinting in the dying sun.

Older memories stirred at the word to show her Drogo and their little boy Rhaego. Drogo lay at the edge of the world, his eyes as lifeless as the eyes in the severed head before her that dripped gently on the sand. His uncut braid seemed to fray in the sun's heat, blowing gently in the breeze. He stared out, far into the horizon, past her, past the great grass sea, past Westeros and past life, dead to her pleas and caresses. And Rhaego… Dany had never seen her son, but she saw a small boy with her violet Targeryen eyes and bronzed skin of her husband. Lying peacefully, as if asleep, in a pool of his own blood.

Filled with murderous rage, she tried to focus her thoughts elsewhere.

So she spared a glance at her future husband, Hizdahr zo Loraq, sitting next to her. He was leaning forward with his fingers laced together, his small, beady eyes greedily watching the bloodshed below. No more, she thought.

She rose from her chair and opened her mouth to command an end when one more slave entered the arena, armed in a curiously familiar manner. His sword drove through the heart of the cutthroat; a backward strike with his elbow left a man with thick red blood pouring out his nose; a third graceful movement decapitated the final attacker. The sudden victor approached the platform and knelt in the sand, his sword trembling.

And then he lifted the helmet.

The dragon woke.


	4. Jon

_Jon's muscles burned with pain and cold as his shaking hands grasped the pickaxe tightly and pulled himself up one last time. Panting, he rolled over in the thick wildling furs and lay on his back on the top of the Wall, looking up at the sky. The fierce wind that had tore at them on the climb had abated, leaving the skies dappled with rays of gold and the deep turbulent grey of the passing storm. A low, exhausted laugh came from his left, and Jon turned his head to see Ygritte lying identically to him, looking back at him. Her wild red hair blew across her face and she smiled a tired smile._

 _'Could your southern ladies make that climb, Jon Snow?' she said mischievously._

 _Jon smiled and opened his mouth to answer when the gentle breeze moving the strands of Ygritte's hair stopped. He rolled over again, this time not on the icy surface of the Wall, but on warm dry pine needles. Ygritte looked up at him, her wildling furs gone and her smooth, pale skin exposed. Her eyes challenged him, as if daring the 'baby crow' to make a move, but Jon couldn't take them seriously- he could see the hot spark of desire and the softer warmth of love in her grey eyes. Jon felt a surge of heat and love, and bent his dark head over her fiery one, pressing his lips against hers._

 _Her lips were ice._

 _Jon opened his eyes and met her empty, ice-blue stare. Frozen maggots poked their heads out of her hollow cheeks; her satin skin had hardened to a mottled grey-brown bone and her exposed teeth were set in a skeleton's permanent grin, but still her auburn hair whipped around her empty face._

 _'You know nothing, Jon Snow,' she said, and stabbed him in the heart._

* * *

Jon heaved a deep breath and woke up, then wished he hadn't. Unlike the dream's soft breeze, the howling wind had left his skin long frozen. At least it was pushing the boats in the right direction- back to the Wall. He looked around, grim-faced, at the silent masses of wildlings that sat in their boats. Horror and pain were etched on their faces as everyone thought, but no one could speak. The hideous blue-eyed figures had disappeared from view some time ago, but everyone carried with them the memory of their lost loved ones with strange, frozen eyes.

If only to stop thinking, Jon turned to Tormund, twisting and sending a fresh wave of pain in his frozen stab wound.

'How long d'you reckon?' he asked in a hoarse voice, grimacing.

He immediately wished he could take the words back. Thousands had just died, and he was asking about the journey's _duration_ like a child.

Tormund was slow in replying, as if the words took a while to process.

'I don' know. We've been movin' for abou' five hours- can't be long now.'

The interaction died. There was nothing to say that was not too painful.

An hour or so passed in the frozen grey when a huge shadowy shape emerged in the fog. The solitary towers of Eastwatch.

'The Wall,' Jon said.

Some windows of the towers burned a flickering yellow.

Jon turned to a nearby brother in black and nodded. 'Blow the horn, Pirran.'

The low horn rang out once across the icy water, now eerily still. Jon heard several shouts from the Wall and saw black figures moving, outlined against the grey sky. For one absurd moment, he felt the urge to laugh. One blow for rangers returning, two for wildlings. How many for thousands of wildlings and a scattered handful of the Night's Watch?

When the boats could go no further, Jon and others climbed out of the boats into the frozen water, dragging them to shore. The slow trudge in sodden furs turned to crisp steps on the white, frozen shore.

'You must be the Lord Commander, Jon Snow.'

Cotter Pyke, the Commander of East Watch was striding toward him with a grim expression on his grizzled bearded face as he took in the visible despair surrounding them. Jon nodded. He allowed himself one deep breath before answering the unspoken question.

'The Others. Some of the wildling leaders were convinced, others not. We had about twelve thousand pledged from several leaders. But there was a great wind, and the Others came. We shut the gates, trapping half the men on the other side. They died.'

Jon pulled another boat up, feigning concentration on the task at hand. With some effort he looked up at Pyke.

Pyke's grey eyes were sombre and Jon knew he didn't need to say anymore.

'Those fucking- things,' he murmured. He looked at the silent wildlings, clambering exhaustedly out onto the shore.

He lowered his voice so that Tormund couldn't hear.  
'Lord Commander, I know that these men- '

'I don't want to hear it, Commander Pyke,' Jon cut him off abruptly, beginning to stride past him to another set of boats that pulled up. Pyke followed.

'My lord… I understand why we're letting the wildlings come into our lands… but not all the men will think so… diplomatically,' he said, hesitantly.

'Men have lost brothers fighting these armies and, believe me, they would rather face the army of the dead than let a horde of killers pass safely through these walls.'

Jon stopped, and turned to stare him dead in the eyes. His brittle self-control slipped and he spat his words.

'Then they have no fucking idea what's coming for them. If any of them knew, they would be begging on their hands and knees for the wildlings to stay. Winter isn't coming, it's fucking here and we need them. They don't trust us, and barely any of us trust them, but if we're going to survive this- if the Realm is going to survive this, they stay on our side of the Wall and _no one touches them.'_ His anger faded from his voice as the note of irrefutable command took hold. He sighed.

'Command your men to take no notice of the Free Folk. The southern quarters will house four hundred men, if we allow room. Save these quarters for the wildling leaders and their families. Send twenty of your most trusted men to take Darknight Hold again and I will send two thousand Free Folk there for care. The remainder will be provided with blankets, shelters, food and weaponry and will be moved to Castle Black.'

He noted Pyke's questioning look as he silently added up the impossible numbers.

'Lord Commander… you said you _had_ twelve thousand men pledged to the cause. How many-'

Jon made no attempt to hide the bitterness in his voice.

'Of the twenty thousand Free Folk, we had twelve thousand coming to our side of the wall. We lost half of _our_ men-'

'So-'

'-So fourteen thousand wildlings are dead, and coming back for us. See to it that there are no more.'

Jon turned and left Commander Pyke, his black cloak swaying behind him. His head was filled with the dream of Ygritte's cold cerulean eyes.


	5. Arya

**Arya**

 _Blood dripped from the squirrel in her jaws, splattering the fresh snow with scarlet droplets. The hunger in her belly died a little with the swallow of fresh meat. She sniffed the air, catching the scent of her little cousins, the small wolves. Her strides came faster as she ran through the thick snow beneath the dark sky, seeking them out. An old memory trickled into her mind, unbidden, and she turned, as if by some instinct, to mark her scent on a nearby tree. The pale smooth weirwood seemed to look at the she-wolf with red eyes. A breeze ruffled its red leaves, curious in the otherwise still night._

 _'Arya,' the wind whispered in a familiar voice of long ago._

 _Remembering, the she-wolf howled long into the bitter night._

* * *

Lana woke in the dark, unaware as to whether her eyes were open at all. All was black, as it were, in the silent stone halls of the House of the Undying. She rose, padding the dusty halls with soft bare feet. _I am swift, like the cat,_ she thought, remembering Syrio's lessons to Arya from a thousand years ago. Angrily, Lana silenced the memory, concentrating on the dark stone passageway.

Lana approached the silent pool, where the shadow of the man that was Jaqen H'ghar stood, head bowed in thought.

'A girl approaches,' a Faceless Man said.

The girl kept her face as blank as his, willing her muscles to not betray her thoughts, or the recent memory of her teeth ripping into small animals. The Faceless Man read her, and though his face moved not a millimeter in response, she knew that her feelings were like large stones thrown clumsily in a huge pond, rippling her face and betraying her mind. A man smiled with no humour.

'A girl struggles. She has difficulty becoming no one. A girl remembers another dead girl, Arya Stark. This girl keeps the other alive,' he said.

Lana slipped. Arya breathed in deeply, concentrated hard on forgetting herself and said nothing.

'A girl's words mean nothing, when her face says one thing and her mouth another. A face reveals a man's true thoughts. If a girl wishes to become no one, she must first learn to control her face. She must use her soul, not her words, to become no one.'

The robed man knelt by the pool and cupped the water in his hand.

'Drink, girl,' he spoke, offering his hands.

Arya couldn't hold back her outburst. Her panicky words echoed in the silence.

'Why? So you can kill me, because I'm not noone yet? I've failed? I want to be no one, I really do!' she shouted.

A sharp smack met her cheek and water trickled down it where the man had struck her.

His eyes were not angry, his face as unreadable as ever.

'A girl lies. She does not want to be no one. She holds on to another girl. It is time for her to forget Arya Stark and take another step to becoming no one. A girl has become someone else, but now she will become a silent someone. She will believe with her heart, not manipulate with her tongue. The choice is yours, girl.'

He cupped more water in his hands and offered it once more. Arya Stark- no, a girl, _only_ a girl- took a deep breath and, seeing no trace of lie in the man's blank features, put her lips to his hands and drank.


	6. Stannis

Stannis Baratheon carefully lifted the tent flap open a crack and watched Davos reading with Shireen. From this angle, he couldn't see Shireen's stiff, cracked side of her face, only her pink, smiling side. She was flushed with the cold and excitement as she taught Ser Davos all about the past Targaryen wars, the so-called "Dance of Dragons". _War is not romantic_ , he thought grimly. This War of the Seven Kingdoms had gone on for far too long, when the real battle was up at the Wall, with Jon Snow.

He gritted his teeth. The stupid, honourable fool. All this Bolton business would be long over if Jon Snow had just accepted his generous offer and ruled as Warden of the North at Winterfell. The Northerners, cold as winter and unforgiving, would easily turn against the Boltons to restore a Stark to Winterfell. Or, at least, a recently legitimised Stark.

Piqued though he was at Snow's stubbornness, he had to acknowledge the tiny part of him that admired his honour. He had banked on Snow being an ambitious young man, perhaps a capable fighter and a good strategist, explaining his surprising leap to the lofty height of Lord Commander. A reasonable leader.

However, in the grim North, bastards were not treated as liberally, as perhaps, in flowery Highgarden or Dorne. Snow was an apt surname for Northern bastards.

Stannis had had no doubt that Jon Snow would accept his offer, rise as Jon Stark and receive the loyalty and respect so long denied to him.

Instead, Snow wore Eddard Stark's stony, unyielding face as he threw the offer back in his face. If he thought for a moment there was a waver of desire in those grey Stark eyes, he must have been wrong.

 _My place is here now, at the Wall. The Northerners and Night's Watch do not respect turncloaks and men that break their vows. I am sworn to take no part in the wars of the realm. I will not betray my brothers._

The words echoed in his head. _Betray my brothers.  
_  
A memory of Renly and Robert laughing rose unbidden to Stannis' mind. He remembered a time, way back, when they were watching their first tournament as boys. Renly and Robert had laughed long and loud. Whilst Stannis was irritated, as always, with their obnoxious laughter, the three of them were united in awe of the huge knights in helms that charged relentlessly at each other with lances for one whole day. That evening, the three of them fought for hours with wooden swords until they fell asleep in the dirt and were carried to bed. It might have been the last time he felt like a brother to Robert and Renly. Even so, that occasion entailed rivalry and fighting.

He gritted his teeth again as he thought of the shadow Melisandre had birthed, and Renly's surprised cry of pain. His mouth, opening briefly, had shut again as he fell down and lay bleeding, until his life was snuffed out like a candle.

Stannis shook himself, angry for his guilt and nostalgia.

 _Renly was a usurper._ He had no claim to the throne, but thought that he could buy Stannis' rightful place on the throne with easy smiles and laughter. That was no king worth following. In killing Renly, he had saved senseless bloodshed and slaughter of two armies.

Stannis knew he would be a better king than Robert, drinking and whoring his way to an early grave, and Renly, who thought a song was worth more than a sword. He wouldn't be a pleasing fool, a jesting, prancing king that crawled before his subjects, but a just, honourable king. The Iron Throne needed an iron fist to keep the Seven Kingdoms at peace. If that meant hard work and a hard face, he would do it.

Even so, everyone's grand prize, the Iron Throne, was only the means, not the ends. Stannis had been to the Wall twice now: the first time as a young man in the middle of the last winter and the second only few weeks ago, meeting Jon Snow on the cusp of winter. It was no question which occasion was colder. As the Northerners so sycophantically repeated- 'Winter was coming.'

Once he was secure in the Iron Throne, he could send as many men as needed to the Wall, to fight the Others and the Long Night Melisandre had prophesied. That was the real war. He would lead his men in battle, as he had done many times before. This time it would be both easier- and harder. Easier in that there could be no whisperers and treason amongst the living. Their loyalty would be absolute.

Harder in that once killed, they would not stay so.

 _That is why I must do it_ , Stannis thought, a sick, sinking feeling in his stomach. Sacrifices have to be made. _I need to become who I was meant to be._

Stannis Baratheon cast one more look into the tent, then returned to Melisandre.


	7. Tyrion

Hi everyone. Just thought I'd make a short note here outlining any confusion.  
The 'world' in which this fan fiction is set is a hybrid of the book series 'A Song of Ice and Fire' and the HBO 'Game of Thrones' series. In this case, Tyrion is slightly more ruthless, as per his book character.  
Previously I intended to do just a couple of one shots from different characters, but some ideas have been coming to me and so a storyline will emerge. However, each chapter is narrated by a different character, like George Martin's ASOIAF. So to any followers, it's not going to be random, you'll definitely see some things developing!

I'm also making an effort to make my chapters a bit longer, so the story is easier to get into. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Tyrion

 _Ser Jorah was fucked_ , thought Tyrion. _All these honourable men are from Ned Stark mould. They never learn. He should never have returned._

He looked at Ser Jorah's desperate face, gently dripping blood onto the already red sand. Still clad in his Westerosi armour that looked so out of place in Mereen, he looked up at Daenerys Targaryen with no attempt to hide the pleading in his voice.

Moments before, Tyrion waddled out into the fighting pit on his short legs, thankful to the jailer for unlocking his chain. He was pleased to see most of the competition dead already, with Ser Jorah just cleaning up the last Mereenese slave. That meant a significantly lowered chance of his head departing his rather short body.

Of course, his intention was not to stand awkwardly in the gritty sand, begging for trouble, but to appeal straight away to the Dragon Queen and get rid of the ridiculous and unnecessary chains around his hands and feet.

Squinting in the bright sunlight, Tyrion had seen a slim, curvy figure, dressed in flowing white silks with matching long white-blonde hair, several shades lighter than that of a Lannister's, sitting nearby with some company under a Mereenese shelter.

Looking at her for the first time, with that almost white hair and strange violet eyes, he was almost as hard as he was curious. She was as comely as described, he had thought approvingly. After first emerging from the hideous, cramped barrel from across the Narrow Sea, he really had no idea what sort of girl Daenerys Targaryen was. He was under the impression that she was a sickly, weak-willed sort of girl, bullied by her brother Viserys into marriage- probably would have been to him, as was the Targaryen way, except that he needed a political marriage for gold and warriors for the Iron Throne. Once acquiring her dragons, the rumourmongers and Eastern whisperers had done the rest to exaggerate the girl and liken her to some mythical dragon queen from the songs. Not much, really.

However, by Ser Jorah's accounts- only forced out of his surly companion by long hours of tedium- she was as magnificent and fierce as she was beautiful. She had been sold as a child bride to the fearsome Dothraki Khal Drogo, where she had earned the horsemen's respect, sacrificed her son, burned the Magi that tricked her, emerged from the funeral pyre unburnt and birthed her dragons. She had tricked the slave masters of Qarth, Astapor and Yunkair, and built an army of freed slaves that earned her the nickname 'Breaker of Chains'. And now she had conquered the ancient city of Mereen, the crown of Slaver's Bay.

Knowing Mormont's reputation as a man of few words, Tyrion was initially surprised by this degree of high praise, but soon noted the sickly look of slavish devotion in Mormont's eyes when he spoke about Daenerys. _Ah, love._

 _But does he know where whores go?_

 _To Mereen_ , he answered and almost laughed out loud. To carefully planned, diplomatic marriages to respected men, marriages designed to keep the simmering peace, marriages to men like Hizdahr zo Loraq. Not to her poor wounded bear. Like Shae had gone to his noble father, her _lion,_ but not to Tyrion…

With some effort, he had wrenched his mind back to the present sunburnt arena and smell of blood.

 _Well, it would certainly be interesting to meet this Mother of Dragons in person,_ thought Tyrion sourly. _I've heard so much about her._

Half a mind on his thoughts, the other on the sounds of scuffled fighting that had finished with Ser Jorah's winning stroke, he had shuffled awkwardly in his leg irons closer to the royal canopy. As he came closer, however, had Tyrion not been in a reasonably perilous situation, he would have snorted.

Truly, Daenerys was beautiful with her strange violet eyes and fair hair, but she hardly looked like a mother of dragons now. She looked like a girl around sixteen, forced to attend some awful social occasion she was expected to enjoy. Even in the bright hot sunlight, he could see her frown, her lips turned down in a sulky yet dignified scowl.

The dark-skinned older man next to her, robed in a magnificent blue, had seemed to enjoy himself far more. He shrewdly noted the equal positioning of their seats. Probably this was the great Hizdahr zo Loraq whom Daenerys Targaryen would soon wed.

The sound of Jorah Mormont's pleading suddenly broke into Tyrion Lannister's thoughts and he realised, with a start, that Daenerys Targaryen was standing, and every centimetre of her pretty face was lit with a cold, fierce fury.

'Khaleesi… please-'

'Ser Jorah Mormont,' she loudly cut across him as though he did not speak. Her clear, authoritative voice rang out, despite the distance that separated her and Mormont.

'You were ordered, on grounds of treason, to leave this city in exile and never return. Yet you return.'

She turned to the small unit of silent men dressed in black armour.

'Seize him.'

The expressionless men quickly surrounded Ser Jorah Mormont and pointed their spears at him. Knowing Mormont's prowess with a sword, he expected some kind of fight, but a look of gut-wrenching sadness and betrayal was upon Jorah's weathered, aging features as he stared up at the queen with shining blue eyes that threatened tears. A low murmur escaped his lips again.

'Please… Khaleesi…'

If she heard him, she pretended not to, determinedly looking now with cool impassivity at the shining Great Pyramid off in the distance.

Mormont hung his head and something that was not blood dripped onto the sand, as the Unsullied firmly clasped his arms. _He looks broken,_ thought Tyrion, as Jorah Mormont raised his head and looked Danaereys in the eye one last time.

'Please… Khaleesi…' he begged for the third time in a louder voice, his voice cracking.

Tyrion expected the Unsullied to draw his spear and pierce Mormont's neck, but to his surprise, the whole party looked up at the noble face of Daenerys Targaryen, as though awaiting instructions. _Oh, of course,_ thought Tyrion. _The slave eunuchs._ Even the Mereenese man beside her was looking at her.

She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again and at this distance, the look of indecision in her violet eyes was unmistakable. Tyrion felt the strangest urge to chuckle at the awkwardness of the situation- the silent slaves gripped her captive, her husband stared confusedly at her and a scarred noseless dwarf was almost grinning while the queen wrestled with her conscience.

After a long moment, something seemed to harden in The Mother of Dragons' eyes and she pursed her soft lips.

'Kill him.'

An Unsullied drew back his arm to shoulder height…

'I bring you a gift!' Jorah yelled desperately. 'Tyrion Lannister!'

The Targaryen girl, clearly stunned, abruptly raised her hand and the Unsullied froze immediately, like statues.

This was his moment, thought Tyrion. It was now or never. All eyes, Unsullied and noble alike, were on him. He had only a moment, he thought shrewdly, before the shock wore off and the Queen would recover. Still, he briefly savoured the dramatic moment. Talking was what he was always good at.

He kept his face grave and his words formal.

'Your Grace, my name is Tyrion, of House Lannister.'

He paused a moment to observe the impression that left, before continuing.

'I have left the service of the Iron Throne to come before you today, to beg you to let me serve Your Grace. I have killed my father, the Lord Tywin Lannister and Hand to the King, and one of your most skilled, capable enemies. The Iron Throne is yours by right. I wish to serve Westeros' rightful queen.'

He fixed her in his mismatched eyes, looking determined.

The Dragon Queen had recovered some composure since Mormont's revelation, but he noted a look of curiosity in her eyes.

He grinned to himself, careful not to let his mouth twitch. Tease her with information, treat her with respect and the girl was his. The story of Tyrion Lannister might well keep Mormont alive.

As though reading his thoughts, she turned back to Mormont. Her smooth, regal face was composed.

'I've changed my mind,' she said coolly.

'Bring him to the pyramid for trial.'

Tyrion noticed that her eyes still looked a little wet, though her face was a still mask.

'And seize the dwarf,' she added.

He was shocked for a fraction of a second before men in black armour appeared and took hold of him firmly. He was irked to see that, despite the four or so men that had appeared so suddenly, only one had actually grabbed him. Dwarf, indeed.

'Bring him, too.'

The fighting over, the whole curious party, the Queen, her husband, her servants, her Unsullied, her disgraced knight and the ugly dwarf began to move out from the bloodstained sandy arena, marching in the long shadow cast by the Great Pyramid in the dying rays of the sun.


	8. Sansa

Sansa

The day dawned bright and cold on Winterfell, as little eddies of snow whirled through the open window of Sansa's tomb. A cold iron tray of untouched dinner, roast pork with congealed gravy and vegetables, lay on the dirty floor. In a cold corner of the room stood a round wooden table; in another piled a heap of soiled gowns, ripped and bloodied from her nights with the Bastard; in another, a solid oaken wardrobe.

Sansa slowly opened her eyes, which were gummed from the tears that leaked out in her sleep. She only wept in her sleep, the only time she couldn't be on guard. She stared dully up at the solid, immovable grey stone roof of the chamber.

All through childhood, in the first moment of her waking day, the same view of steadfast Winterfell had greeted her. At the time, all she wished for was to look up a rich crimson canopy emblazoned with a prancing stag, listening to the busy bustle of movement in the streets, smelling the fresh smell of fruit and basking in the warm rays of early morning sunlight of King's Landing. She wanted it all- the tourneys, handsome, gallant knights like Ser Loras, gentle and courageous, the bright silken dresses of faun, and lilac, and emerald, and sky, and most of all, a beautiful, golden-haired prince, her Joffrey. She would have golden and auburn haired children, vivacious and perfect, and be known as a beautiful and gracious queen. Every morning she would pray in Baelor's Sept in the scattered rainbow light of the crystal and every evening, she would hold her beautiful king's hand as they watched the sky turn rosy then fade to indigo, as the sun slowly sank beneath the still, reflective water of Blackwater Bay.

But time and life had spoiled the perfect fruit of her imagination. The visions of King's Landing and its gallant knights in shining armour- the imaginings of a stupid little girl- had rotted, blackened and began to buzz with flies, like her father's head on the high walls of the Red Keep after Joffrey's mercy.

Shuddering from her reverie, Sansa stretched out her pale legs, mottled with bruises, and slowly limped to the open window to gaze out over Winterfell. She shivered violently in the fierce chill, but did not pull back from the window. She looked out over the grey stone battlements, to the dark, peaceful forest beyond and the softly falling snow. In the early hours of the morning, Winterfell knew silence and timelessness its new, brutal lord could never know.

It wasn't bright and beautiful, like the poisonous jewel in her necklace that day at the wedding, but it was solid, strong and eternal. Winterfell would stand for a thousand years, and if it stood, she knew that she could.

But life couldn't continue like this. Sansa would have silently thanked the Seven- if she could bring herself to believe in them anymore- that Ramsay was off fucking Myranda and not lying beside her in the furs this morning. She was tiring fast these short days. _There is only so much more I can take_ , she thought, _before I become like Theon._ Every time she thought of the Bastard's kicked dog and his rat-like, watery pale eyes, once the wry Theon Greyjoy, she felt sick. __

She gathered her strength from the stonewalls of Winterfell, but each time Ramsay came, she felt more of Sansa Stark slip away. Soon she would be nothing more than a an empty, titled shell of a girl. The days were unbearable, her nights worse.

For all Ramsay's cruelty, however, one thing could be said of her husband- he was always careful to never leave a visible mark. In the icy days of departing autumn, the long thick woolen dresses and furs she wore covered all but her face. That was the only part of her visible, and the only part her husband left untouched.

Still gazing out the window, Sansa ran a hand over her naked body, feeling the cuts and rough, flayed skin that had once been whole and silken. Her hand trailed between her bitten and torn breasts and dropped further to her clawed stomach. Her hand rested there- and felt the gentle curve. Her heart stopped.

She stood still in the cold, in shock, deaf to the crows' harsh cawing from the broken tower. Her pale body stood frozen, carved from wintry stone, as her mind boiled furiously.

Things suddenly became very clear to her.

Sansa shivered suddenly as the crows' noisy shrieks broke into her thoughts. Quickly, she opened her wooden cupboard and wrapped herself in a warm grey fur, then sat down at the small table in the corner of the chamber, carefully sliding open the drawer and drawing out the bottle of ink and quill the Bastard used for letters.

But what for paper? She glanced around and her eye fell on a small dusty red leather-bound book half hidden under her bed- _The Holy Scriptures of the Seven_ , and she held her breath. It was the same book she had had all her life, carried with her always, since she decided she like her mother's rainbow Faith more than the red-eyed, weeping gods of her father. She had stopped believing in the Seven long ago, but she could not bring herself to throw away her little book whose dusty pages smelled of home.

When her father had been arrested, she prayed and prayed fiercely that the Seven would spare him.

 _Father, see my father's honor and innocence with your just eyes… Mother, for the love a child bears her father grant him mercy_ _should his crimes be true…_

In fact, she prayed to them all- except the frightening Stranger.

When Joffrey announced he would show Eddard Stark mercy, Sansa almost cried for joy. Until his mercy saw him cut off his head.

 _The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his last words,_ she remembered her father saying gravely, eons ago. _Ours is the way of the Old Gods._

The Seven wouldn't save him. His Old Gods couldn't save him. And Joffrey, the coward, commanded her father's death, and no one raised a finger. There were no gods.

Sansa left the table, bent down and picked up her little book from under her bed. She sadly blew the dust off its crimson cover and opened it to a random page.

 _The Crone  
Hymn 14: 5  
_

 _For none is so wise as She  
Carry Her light through the darkness  
Light the way with Her wisdom  
For one who sees with Her mind  
Will find the Path  
Hidden in the dark._

How strangely prophetic.

Sansa ripped the thin page out. It left a feathered line in the violated book.

Sitting down again, she opened the bottle, dipped the nib in it carefully, placed it on the torn hymn and slowly began to write over the printed letters.

 _My dear Lord Baelish,_

 _I hope fortune favours you more than I, for whilst my marriage to Ramsay Bolton was, by all accounts, a political one, even I scarcely dreamed it would prove so loveless. I write to you now in the hope that you can rescue me from this waking nightmare my life has become._

 _I am with Ramsay's child, as I'm sure I have been for these past two moons. I am slowly growing to love this child, but I fear deeply for it. For if our child is a girl, I am certain she will be killed. Ramsay is a monster, and a girl serves no use in securing the North should Lady Walda's child prove a boy. My lord father and Warden of the North, Roose Bolton, has assured Ramsay that he is his rightful heir, but Walda's son still poses a viable threat to his inheritance and title._

 _But I know that my child is a boy. I pray to the Seven every day, that my instincts are right and he is a boy._

 _But still, I fear for him. Ramsay will take him from me and groom him like a savage dog. He will grow up strong, a fitting future Warden of the North, but cruel as my father never was. Our son will rule the North, but I fear the kind of ruler he will become with Ramsay whispering at his side._

 _Petyr, I'm so afraid. Every time we are together, I fear that my husband will hurt our child. He does… awful, painful things to me, that I feel my boy lurching inside, in agony. I pray that my son will hold on through the pain, for without him, I feel there are few things worth living for. As the days quicken, I know that my son's passing would have me following soon afterward._

 _I beg you, for the love you held for my mother, to use your title as Lord of the Vale and help me save my son. A few more months and he will come into the world. I care not for my own position anymore. My Lord Baelish, you have always played the game of thrones well, and played to win, but I am no longer a child, and I have no wish to play any more childish games for which I have so little talent. So I ask you this: to take my newborn son and care for him as though he were your own. Claim him as your bastard, Abrahien Eddard Stone. Teach him cunning, wisdom and bravery. Allow one of your most trusted knights of the Vale to teach him swordplay, and counsel him yourself in lessons of wit and mind. In this tremulous, treacherous realm, I have no doubt that King Tommen's young reign will be challenged. See that my son is on the right side of the throne. I trust in you, Petyr, that you will guide my boy to aid the king and allow his legitimization, as your beloved son._

 _Please, Petyr, for the sake of the love you bore my mother, the Lady Catelyn Tully, please do this for me._

 _Yours,_

 _Sansa Stark_

Sansa rubbed her dry eyes, then reached a hand inside her robe and drew it again across her stomach. _It would work,_ she thought firmly. _Yes. It has to._

Without a seal, Sansa dipped her thumb in the black ink and pressed it against the page. She pulled two long auburn hairs from her head and held against the drying smudge so they stuck there. _It will have to do,_ she thought grimly.

She rolled the page into a tight scroll, then crossed the room and tore a section of lace from a cream dress, ripping it in half and tying it around the scroll. She placed her dinner tray on the stone sill and waited.

'Come on,' she whispered to the cawing crows circling the tower. 'You must be as hungry as I am.'

Within a couple of minutes, one landed on the tray, pecking at the cold pork. She slowly drew out a hand.

It looked up at her sharply, startled at the movement, its dark beady eyes bright and intelligent. Holding her breath, she gingerly wrapped the lace around a talon and tied it. It continued to peck the meat.

'The Eyrie', she told it.

It looked at her again, gave a harsh caw, then spread its dark wings and flew from the window, scrabbling the food on the sill. Sansa Stark watched in silence, amidst the penetrating cries of the crows, as its inky wings were lost in the rabble and falling snow, silhouetted against the pale grey sky.


End file.
